Enchanted by a Lady's Talent: A Historical Regency Romance Book

by Abigail Agar

  “Mr. Brooks, how nice to see you. Looks like you have a problem here, yes?” the man asked.

  “Me and everyone else,” Doyle replied.

  “Yes, yes, it is such a shame. This was a horrible thing which was done in the name of a protest.”

  “Well, at least you are managing to get some business out of it,” Doyle said.

  The man smirked, his smile confessing that he was absolutely benefitting from it.

  “That does not mean I wish ill upon my fellow men here in this part of town. However, you do have a very large window here and the small one on the door. I trust you would like both replaced?” he asked.

  “Yes, I would. Tell me, how many books shall I have to sell in order to pay for it?” Doyle asked.

  “Now, now, Mr. Brooks, first I must take measurements,” he said.

  Doyle sighed and nodded to him before getting back to his other work. No matter what, he would have no choice but to pay.

  A short time later, the man came back over and showed him the price. Doyle felt the panic wash over him and buried his face in his palm for only a moment before taking a deep breath and giving a nod of confirmation.

  “I should like to have this done, but only if you decrease the price by a tenth,” he said.

  The man smiled in that patronising way which Doyle detested more than anything.

  “Mr. Brooks, I fear that I cannot do that. This is the price. This is the price for anyone with a window this size or that size,” he said.

  “You know that everyone has to pay what you say,” Doyle said.

  The man shrugged his delight.

  “Fine then. Just get it done. When can I expect it to be fixed?” he asked.

  “That all depends. You see, I am booked until the eighteenth of August now, what with how many windows there are needing fixed.”

  “The eighteenth? But I have an event on—”

  “The twelfth, yes. I know. And, that being said, I thought that, perhaps, we might arrange an exchange?” he said, raising his eyebrows at Doyle.

  “What sort of exchange?” Doyle asked, expecting him to demand more money.

  “My daughter is an avid reader. I wondered if you might have a spare ticket for her to your grand event.”

  “For your daughter? Well, most of the attendees shall be men of great literary importance. But…”

  Doyle thought about how wonderful it would be for a young woman to see that this book had been written by another female. She would be there on the night of the big reveal. It was actually quite a grand idea, and it would get him his window sooner.

  “Certainly,” he said. “The ticket is available. And I trust you shall attend with her?”

  “Most certainly, Mr. Brooks. I shall have your window in by tomorrow evening,” he promised.

  “Thank you,” Doyle said.

  Once everything was arranged, Doyle and George tacked boards up over the gaping hole in the side of the shop. He could not risk any looting or worse to happen now that they had the shop partially cleaned up.

  Doyle hailed a coach to take him home with his boxes of damaged books. When he arrived there, he took them all out and then put the new books in the empty boxes.

  He sighed, knowing that these books meant a great deal to him and now, he was going to have to sell them. But he still had some of them and he had all the ones from the shop so it would certainly not harm his reading material.

  Doyle then went through the damaged books with the binding glue he had purchased and did his best to try and fix as many as he could for his own private collection.

  The day wore on and he thought that nothing more exciting would happen, but then there was a knock at his door.

  He answered and was surprised to see Miss Blackwell standing there.

  “Miss Blackwell? Do come in,” he said.

  She curtseyed and entered, following him to the parlour.

  “Would you like some tea?” he offered.

  “No, thank you.”

  “We were not planning to meet this evening, were we? I thought that you feared your mother and father would be angry if you were out in the evenings,” he said.

  “They would, but I told them that I was eating with Miss White. I wanted to come and see how you are doing after all that took place in town and with your shop,” she said.

  “That is so kind of you,” he said.

  “I was worried,” she replied.

  “Yes, well, I must confess that it was difficult for me to see it happen. I worried that everything would be lost. But, as it is, the window shall be fixed tomorrow. Mr. Sinclair and I have cleaned up a great deal and you can see there I have many books which I am trying to fix.”

  “That is wonderful. I am glad to hear that things are coming back together for you,” she said.

  “Yes, indeed. But…is something the matter?” he asked, thinking she looked bothered.

  Miss Blackwell looked at him with eyes that held the desire to be candid, but she shook her head.

  “No, nothing. I just wanted to ensure that you were all right after all that took place.”

  “Miss Blackwell, forgive me for pushing, but are you quite sure? You seem upset by something,” he said.

  She paused, but finally made eye contact again.

  “Mr. Brooks, has Mr. Sinclair ever mentioned a woman he cares for?” she asked.

  “Mr. Sinclair? No. There are many young ladies who appear to be interested in him, but he has not told me of his affection for another,” Doyle said, wondering why she would ask that.

  Did she like George? Was she asking because she was interested in him? Of course she was. Doyle had been such a fool for hoping she would like him instead.

  “All right, then. Well, I was simply curious,” she said with a sigh. “Anyway, may I assist you with any of your books?”

  Although she made the offer, Doyle refused. He was tired and discouraged. If Miss Blackwell was interested in George, he did not stand a chance with her.

  And he should have known that all along.

  Chapter 21

  Pippa took a deep breath and smiled. Everything had finally come together. At last, there was a harmony that she hadn’t expected to discover. No matter how much she had hoped to find it, no matter how much she had fought for it, now that Pippa had that unity with Mr. Brooks, she knew that she was going to spend her whole life clinging to it.

  The unity, of course, had nothing to do with her wishes for romance or her thoughts about their future. Instead, this unity was all about the book. Her book.

  Their book.

  It was finally time that they finish up the last two scenes they had to rewrite. They had settled on the final details of the manuscript and decided that these two scenes would be easy. Pippa would write them and Mr. Brooks would do minimal editing, only what was crucial to the basics of grammar and punctuation, as well as ensuring that it made sense with the story.

  “I will have the pages to you by tomorrow,” Pippa promised.

  “Are you quite certain you don’t need more time? I can give you as long as you need,” he said.

  “As long as I need?” she asked with a laugh. “Isn’t the release on the thirteenth of August?”

  Mr. Brooks blushed and looked away.

  “Yes, I suppose you are right. I am just eager to read what it is that you come up with, and I suppose I am trying to be accommodating. But you are correct. We are on a deadline. We must be quick about getting the book prepared and, once it is, I shall have it printed right away.”

  “I can hardly believe that I am soon going to see my work properly bound,” Pippa declared.

  “Indeed, it is an exciting thing to look forward to. I am just stunned that we have nearly completed this. It has been a tremendous amount of work, but well worth the effort. You have done an admirable job in creating this fine piece of work and I thank you for allowing me to be a part of it,” Mr. Brooks said.

  Pippa was confused by him. He said things like this,
as if he really recognised that this was her book and not his, and that her work was something to be admired. He was still choosing to take the primary credit for it, however.

  She understood that there were reasons, for the sake of publishing, that she would not be able to be granted full credit under her own name in order to convince people to buy the book, but could he not do more to make her name known? He still had not even advertised that she was the author—even in part. He had made no real effort to display her own parts of this.

  Even if she were never going to be the prominent name on the cover of a book, Pippa wished that Mr. Brooks would be more vocal about her work. He had not, as yet, shared anything to do with his intentions of giving her credit. He had not told anyone, as far as she was aware. He had simply allowed everyone to believe that they were coming to see the release of a book which he had written.

  “Is something bothering you?” he asked her, gazing at her face with a look of intuition on his own.

  Pippa swallowed and glanced away from him, hardly able to make eye contact.

  “Please, tell me what is wrong. I thought that we were doing very well. A moment ago, we were celebrating the awareness that this book is soon to be published and now you appear quite sad,” he said.

  “I am…confused,” she admitted.

  “About what? What have I done to confuse you?” Mr. Brooks asked.

  “Well, you act as though you recognise this as being my work. Finally, after all this time, you are giving me that acknowledgement. And yet, there is still nothing with my name upon it. There is nothing on the advertisements, nothing said in the shop. You have promised me credit, but how am I to know that you shall fulfill that promise?” she questioned.

  It was not easy, telling him that she had these concerns. Pippa wanted so badly to trust him, and she had no desire for him to think that she was petty. But she missed the fire that she had felt previously, when this book meant everything to her and she was unashamed to fight for it.

  Now, because of her feelings for Mr. Brooks, that had changed. She found herself distracted and overwhelmed. At times, she was more intent upon getting his attention than getting this novel in order. That was not a good place to be. She hated feeling as if she had been sidetracked by a man.

  Pippa had never wanted to be like other women she saw, simpering and desperate for the attention of some handsome gentleman. So why was she now bowing to the whims of Mr. Brooks? Why was she allowing him to have such a determining part in her plans and goals?

  She looked back at him with the questions apparent in her expression and he was looking back at her with sadness and understanding. At least he was feeling empathetic, it appeared. That was quite a nice change of pace considering the past when he had argued to receive all the credit for her book.

  “Miss Blackwell, I am not surprised you feel this way, and I cannot shame you for it. The truth is you are right. I have kept your name out of things. However, I do promise that I have a few very good reasons for it. Three, in fact,” he stated.

  Pippa was unconvinced, but she decided to give him a chance to explain and she would reserve judgment for when he finished. If she were still unsatisfied, she could complain after the fact.

  “This first reason is the simplest of them all. If I advertise your name, fewer people will take this book seriously. It is unfair, I understand, but the sophisticated men of literature in England will not approve of reading a book by a young woman. It is as simple as that. They are not going to take you seriously—even if that is a horrible fact,” he said.

  It was, of course, the thing about which she was already aware, but being reminded of it made it all the more real. Frustrated and annoyed, Pippa recognised that he was absolutely right and she had no choice but to go along with this reality.

  “Does that make sense?” he asked.

  “No…and yes,” she replied, pouting.

  It made no sense that society would view things in such a stagnant way, but it did make sense that he was keeping her name away from the book because of it.

  Mr. Brooks gave a sad little laugh in understanding of her disappointment and she was glad that she really was not so alone after all. When he was around, she felt as if all the world was singing in harmony with one another. It was as though things were finally righted, made the way they were always supposed to be and that there could, at last, be peace.

  “Well, allow me to share the second and third reasons with you. The second is that you have told me your mother and father shall not approve. I thought it best to be sure that they do not learn of your involvement with this book. I want you to be protected from their anger and frustration, to ensure that you do not have to worry about upsetting them. That is what you want, correct?”

  Pippa nodded again. This, too, was a very good reason to keep her name out of things. Maybe he really was just trying to look out for her—or maybe these were all excuses so that he could retain credit, but she didn’t want to think of that as being a possibility anymore. Not when they were getting along so well.

  “I thought so. I should hate for you to be in trouble and not be allowed to come and see me before we finish this. It is very important that we complete our work in a timely fashion,” he said.

  Pippa smiled, thinking back again to his earlier comment for her to take her time. Mr. Brooks had not appeared to be the sort of man who might be moved or swayed by sentiment, but that was precisely what she was seeing from him now.

  “Very well. And the third reason? You must wow me, now. Do not be stingy with your excuses,” she teased him.

  He laughed again, this time with mirth dancing in his blue eyes.

  “Certainly. The final reason is that I cannot wait for the evening when we have everyone here before us and I unveil the book, written by a woman, with my input. I cannot wait to see the expressions on the faces of those wealthy men of society who believe themselves to be among the most intelligent and learned in all the world. They shall be stunned when you are seen in the room and acknowledged as the primary author.”

  “Primary? You mean that you are going to confess that I was the one who initially wrote the book?” she asked.

  “Something like that. I am going to ensure that everyone knows you were the one who wrote the bulk of the book,” he said.

  There was a vagueness to his words that did not quite sit well with Pippa, but she couldn’t think what else to do about it. It made no sense for her to get angry when there was nothing necessarily to be angry about. If he was telling the truth, she shouldn’t have a problem with it.

  And if he was lying? She would never forgive him for that, but there was no reason to assume that he was telling lies about it. She had to trust him. He had given her so much freedom to work the way she wanted, and it made her believe in his intentions. He could have changed everything, made the book nearly unrecognisable from her original work.

  But he had refrained. Instead, he had allowed her to work on the book with him. No matter how much doubt she may still have had within her, Pippa held onto that with gratitude.

  “Well, I am thankful that you intend to keep that promise,” she said, an undertow of warning in her voice.

  Mr. Brooks smiled at her, his eyes an ocean in which she wanted to swim. Pippa could not help staring into them.